Giving thanks to the turkey

The turkey sat placidly under my legs, poking her head out from a brown paper bag. I held the bird's shoulders, gently, and instinctively murmured to her that everything would be fine.

But, of course, it wouldn't be.

It had taken two hours to drive south from Chicago to this wind-swept farm in Ford County. But the philosophical journey to get to this point was a far longer one — years, really, of trying to come to terms with eating meat.

Now, inspired by a moving online video (grist.org/article/food-2010-11-22-giving-thanks) about a Wisconsin farm where consumers were allowed to harvest and pluck their turkeys, I was about to connect as closely as I could with the source of my Thanksgiving dinner.

Mark Hoffman, a technical writer and engineer who grew up on a Kansas farm and now runs a rural bed and breakfast where sustainable agriculture is practiced, would slaughter the bird while I held her still.

He held the knife in front of me, stroked the turkey's head and asked if I was ready. But I never feel ready for these things.

The video from northern Wisconsin had intrigued me, and I wanted to share that connection and the thankfulness that the people interviewed said they felt. But daunted by a 14-hour drive with my kids (half of it with a freshly killed turkey as well), I consulted local farmers to explore opportunities closer to home.

We couldn't exactly duplicate the Wisconsin harvest in Illinois, where birds can't be sold unless they've been processed in a licensed facility. But Harry Carr, owner of Mint Creek Farm southwest of Kankakee, invited us to come down to help Hoffman slaughter a Thanksgiving turkey on his property.

Lanky and philosophical, Carr regularly writes poetry for his farm Web site and possesses the mellow bearing of a shepherd — or at least the shepherds of my urban imagination. Processing livestock has always been Carr's least favorite part of the farm cycle, but he works hard to see that it is carried out in a way that's as kind as possible to the animals and the environment.

Unlike the vast majority of livestock in this country, Carr's animals live outdoors, eat organic grain and forage in the fields. This gives his eggs deep orange yolks and boosts the nutrient profile of the resulting meat. Previous visits to Mint Creek have made me feel confident that the $26 he charges for a chicken is money well spent.

I took along my 8-year-old daughter, Miranda, my boyfriend and his 6-year-old son, Mateo. We helped Carr move his flock of sheep from one pasture to the next while the kids ran around the blustery field commenting on the fertilizer left by the sheep and the lambs playing next to their moms.

Lunch and the main event would be at the Greenhouse Bed and Breakfast, about a mile down the road. Mark and Guia Hoffman's B&B features extensive organic gardens and dozens of chickens that roam the grounds and often end up in the family's soup.

Today would be no exception, and upon arrival we found a large pot of water heating over a fire next to a sharp ax lodged in a tree stump. An old rooster and a hen were scheduled for the pot, as was an unlucky turkey.

"Harry, which one are you gonna pick?" Mateo asked as they waded through the turkey field at Carr's farm.

"Probably the one I can catch first," Carr responded.

After a few near-misses, he gathered a squeaky white bird in a tight hug, stroking her feathers to calm her. Miranda looked up at me, a little teary.

"Poor thing," she said. "She doesn't know what's coming."

"That's probably a good thing," I told her.

As Carr held the turkey in the backseat, I drove to the B&B, avoiding any eye contact with the bird. Carr decided we should call her T-Girl, presumably to distinguish her as an individual rather than just a piece of meat. I wished he hadn't done that.

After placing a brown paper poncho over T-Girl, I crouched over her warm body, whispering assurances and trying to keep her still. Behind me, my boyfriend collected her large claws in a tight grasp. Mark Hoffman stroked the bird's red head, thanked her for her life and drew a sharp blade across her neck. Then, silence.

Finally, Mateo called out, "Yuck, look at all of that blood." Miranda stood flapping her hands over her eyes and cringing.

T-Girl, meanwhile, nearly squirmed away as powerful convulsions coursed through her body. I hadn't anticipated such strength, and we waited a long two minutes for her to finally fall still.

The kids helped pluck her white downy feathers with minimal enthusiasm. They were, however, fascinated by her craw and gizzard still full of grain and rocks to grind it. Miranda wanted to take them home for her science fair project.

We thanked the Hoffmans, who sent us off with some greens and a squash from their garden and a experience we will never forget.

Back at Carr's farm, we bought one of T-Girl's cousins who had been processed earlier in the week at an approved facility. One aim of our trip was to better understand what goes into sustainable livestock farming and to make sure we don't take our meat for granted. The $98 price tag for our 14-pound bird helped me on that point, but for Miranda, especially, the experience brought a heightened awareness that I hope will last.

"I know it won't be her (T-Girl on the table), but I'm still going to feel a little like it is," she said. "I'll be sad but also thankful to the animal and thankful she had a good life on Harry's farm. … I guess that's what Thanksgiving is, right?"